Dragon Ball Eterna (DBE)
by phikshun
Summary: 1,000 years after the death of the Z fighters, humanity has forsaken technology in favor of ki, enhanced by traces of Saiyan bloodlines. Military factions wage war in the name of the ancient Z warriors they claim as their founders. It is onto this strange, war-torn Earth that Patrizelli Gaia crashes her spaceship. But a world at war is just the beginning of Earth's troubles...
1. Chapter 1: The Tip of the Fang

Hey all,

Welcome to Dragon Ball Eterna.

This is my first publication on Fan Fiction so please _let me know_ if something seems weird or wrong. It probably is. Holla atcha boy and I will fix it.

I am _very_ excited to be sharing this with everyone. Though I have only the first several installments written there should be enough material to get you hooked, keep you busy, and hopefully not bore. If you find a chapter or chapter section dry or boring, please power through. We're just charging up ki in these first couple chapters ;) The battle is just beginning.

I would love you all to share comments, questions and theories about DBE. The world of Dragon Ball Eterna follows a split timeline from the Dragon Ball Universe. This will become more apparent as the story goes on but you are welcome to guess where it splits and what is different (spoiler: no GT).

If Game of Thrones and Dragon Ball Z had a baby, that would be this story.

Enjoy, comment and increase those power levels,

RC

 **Chapter I**

 **~Vandakir~**

Two men walked in the shadows of the trees and the shadows behind them. The path was wide but simple; the great forest around them, quiet. Only their footsteps on the packed dirt and the occasional birdcall impeded the stillness of their thoughts.

"This is stupid."

When Vandakir spoke, he expected the knot behind his sternum to loosen. It did not. His escort, the lieutenant, the other, briefly closed his eyes.

"Did you hear me?"

Agghus said, "How could I not hear you, Lord Vandakir?"

"Then why did you not respond?"

"What was I supposed to say?"

Agghus had him at that. Vandakir shifted the strap of the satchel on his shoulder. Precious cargo, he had been told, entrusted only in the hands of a Nikin noble. Terms the Wolves would not accept. It was stupid.

"You could have said, 'yes.' Then at least I would have known you were aware."

Agghus opened his eyes again. He waved a finger at the woods.

"You know these Wolves, and the allies of their clan, do you know what they are best at?"

Agghus had an expression like glass, Vandakir thought—perfectly smooth and composed and ready to shatter.

"They draw their strength from the Forest, from life itself. It's a technique not unlike the spirit—"

"No." Agghus spoke like a drill master from the Agoge. "They are weak. Their trees are weak. It is their ability to move without sound in this place they are a part of, that is the only thing that makes them dangerous. Do you know what the best way to detect them is?"

Agghus paused for a half-step to lift his boot. The vibrations, Vandakir knew, through the trees, the roots, the ground. Agghus was keeping constantly vigilant. He closed his eyes.

Suddenly, despite the bodyguard beside him and the Wolf Clan assassins likely lurking in the towering canopy, Vandakir Rah III felt very, entirely alone.

 **~Zelli~**

Patrizelli stretched out in her pod-cushion. She punched a few buttons and the screen rippled blue. Daan asked her what she would like to watch—a history, perhaps, of the Gilded Wars, or one of her favorite sitcoms. Daan's servers contained well over a billion unwatched hours, whatever his captain's tastes: humor, drama, something inspiring…

"A clear view, please," Patrizelli said.

The screen disappeared and, in an instant, Patrizelli found herself alone in the vacuum of space.

Specks of white, a vision of distant galaxies, hovered like dust as it settled on the ocean floor. Patrizelli lingered among them for a moment, just the lights and her. She closed her eyes and they swirled in her imagination.

"What do you think is out there?"

"I _know_ what is out there," Daan replied. "Five hundred billion galaxies of on the order of one hundred thousand million stars—"

"Daan?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

The program purred in indignation. Patrizelli reflected on the need to meditate. It seemed all she did was meditate. And watch Sons of Icarus, her soap opera about hunks to hot for the sun. She let out a breath.

"Daan?"

"Yes, Captain Gaia?"

"I'm sorry I told you to shut up."

"That's okay, Zelli. I understand."

Zelli shifted her gaze, the asteroid's churning white body came into view, a hundred thousand klicks ahead of them. It all came back to this.

 **~Vandakir~**

Vandakir was not a great warrior. Though his Saiyan bloodline was purer than most, he had never developed into the fighter he was promised to be. He felt out of place in his red-shell armor. In the Nikin court, at least he had the affection of a few. In the Great Forest of the Wolf Clan, not even his one ally could he call his friend.

"I am not a strong flier," Vandakir had confessed to Agghus when the mission was arranged. Vandakir has been sweating from his pits to his fingertips.

"The Wolf Clan forbids travel above the canopy. We will be on foot, nothing else."

If Agghus had meant the words to make Vandakir feel better, it had failed. And Vandakir knew, Agghus did not fail.

Above all, Vandakir felt weak beside his guard, the man singly entrusted with his life. Stupid, so, so stupid.

Everything that a Nikin warrior was supposed to be, everything Vandakir was not, Agghus was. A battle-hardened warrior; a slayer of enemies from every school, clan and temple; a true soldier, loyal to the core, decisive in action; a man with a diluted bloodline who had simply overworked his way to power. Every report Vandakir had read confirmed that this is the man Agghus was.

They were night and day, Red and Blue, boy and man. Vandakir tried to find courage somewhere in the bottom of his lungs. Agghus might have been a great warrior, he might have been proud—so much the Nikin way—but Vandakir was Nikin, too, and he would make his bodyguard listen.

Vandakir spelled it out, "The Wolf Clan will not accept the treaty… So why send it with just two men? Why use some pathetic noble—a court loser—to deliver the message? What good am I?"

Agghus did not pause. He lowered his hood.

"Don't answer me; it's fine."

A rare break in the canopy allowed in a shaft of golden light. Fields of moss and ivy glistened like jade. Vandakir had studied up on the Great Forest before his departure. It's secrets. It's lore.

"It is sacred here," he murmured, agreeing with the Wolf Clan beliefs.

Agghus stopped. He looked strangely at Vandakir. A little reaction, in the glass face. Agghus removed a small parcel from his shoulder; he also carried one. Inside was a small roll of canvas. He unrolled the covering to reveal a metal dagger, wickedly jagged, polished to shine. Vandakir felt dizzy.

"Do you know what this is?"

Vandakir could not speak. Nikin warriors were forbidden from carrying weapons. They killed as their first Master had, with fists and ki alone.

"It is a Wolf Fang Dagger. It leaves a very distinct wound."

Agghus cupped his hand around the hilt.

"So when I return your body to New Vegeta, it will be clear that the Wolf Clan has killed you."

 _If only my body was as fast as my mind_ , thought Vandakir—a bowstring stretched in the shadows.

"They're here," Agghus said, and he thrust the dagger at Vandakir's heart.

 **~Zelli~**

They were like dogs from Old Earth, forever chasing cars. Zelli's people, the last remnants of the human race, following after super-asteroids in the hope of finding life. Zelli had been tailing her own hunk of space matter for almost three years, and she was getting sick of it, promise of salvation or not.

Zelli's rock was even too small for a super-asteroid, too small to be one of the Halley's Creatures, intelligent beings that masqueraded as asteroids, laying earth-like eggs in their wake. But its movement had been uncanny, shifting in and out and back into light speeds, and Zelli's governors had made the call: a human needed to follow it.

 _I may die without never seeing another living face,_ Zelli thought from time to time. Her mind drifted back to the Icarus Hunks. She sighed. Sixteen was a tough time to be crossing the universe, alone.

"Zelli? May I show you something?"

Daan zoomed in on the screen, an unfathomable distance, to a fuzzy blue dot.

"What have you got here?"

Zelli sat up.

"We're still very far away… Veryyyy far. But its right on our trajectory. And initial readings suggest nitrogen and oxygen. Potentially hydrogen."

Zelli laced up her hi-tops. Not that there was anywhere to run, but it made her feel ready.

"Faint indicator of life—"

"ARE YOU SURE?!" she exploded.

"No!" Daan replied sternly. "I'm not sure. We're still much too far away for—"

Blah blah blah.

"Why didn't you tell me about this when you sighted it?!"

"I didn't want to get your hopes up, after last time…"

Zelli's mood darkened. The program had a point. They had run off course checking out a possible sign of life six months ago, and when the trailed turned up dust, Zelli had cried for a month. Only Daan's persistent cooing had stopped her from aborting her mission—or her life.

But that was old Zelli. Old Zelli was a little girl. New Zelli was a boss. She wore a backwards cap. She meditated—a lot. New Zelli took command. She zoomed in; she zoomed out. She zoomed in; she zoomed out on the faint blue speck of hope.

"Daan, are you thinking we should take a chance?"

"Zelli, the odds of finding life in this zone are—"

"NEVER TELL ME THE ODDS!"

Zelli stomped her rubber sole on the screen.

"Ouch."

"I said, Daaaan… Are you ready… to take a chance?"

Blue ripples of thought.

"I am incapable of making such a decision," the program stated. "So I will simply tell you what you want to hear: Yes."

"YEEHAW!" Zelli bellowed, pointing to the dot. "Then let's go for it! Full speed ahead!"

"At once, Captain Gaia," the program replied, and it began to bend the fabric of space time around them.

 **~Vandakir~**

Vandakir saw his death, but heard something else: metal striking metal. The dagger swung wide, missing his heart and throat and burying into the muscle of his shoulder. _What a scar that will be_ , he thought. An arrow ricocheted into the forest.

Vandakir fell back. His blood filled the air. Now he felt the pain. Not pain, agony. At the very least, it would be short lived. Agghus would not miss a second time. But the Wolves were too fast.

Arrows, riding bolts of ki, rained down around them. Agghus knocked two away with his dagger; a third painted a thin red stripe across his cheek. He clenched his fists, dug in his heels and roared as he released the power within him.

A Super Saiyan, thought the woozy Vandakir, never failed to impress, even when they were trying to kill _you._ The air pulsed with photon waves; the dirt road cracked and rippled. The glass expression shattered and Agghus took one more look at the war-bait royal flub, laying at his feet. Furious pride.

The Wolves enveloped them like a cloud.

Just before Vanadkir blacked out from loss of blood, he felt two of the Wolves scoop him up by the shoulders and dash away int the brush. They _were_ fast, not as fast as a Nikin soldier in flight, but silent, too. The leaves and brush seemed to part around them. Explosions shook the forest and mighty trees toppled as Agghus blasted his enemies. But even though the Wolves were weak, there were _hundreds._

 _I've been saved by my enemies_ , Vandakir thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And he smiled as he passed into darkness.

 **~Agghus~**

In the sky, beyond the blue, there is black. Nikin warriors had seen it. Back when the blood was pure, great Nikin warriors traveled all the way up to the moon, and held their breath for a minute or two.

Agghus was not one of those masters. Few alive are. Still, he believes someday it could be like that again—the Nikin covering the globe, ruling even to the moon in space. He launched from the forest below and halts a klick above the forest. He glows gold, a star, winking to life against the blue.

He does not admire his handiwork—the acres of ancient forest he has already leveled. The worm—the boy—was right. There is something sacred in the forest. And its ancient wood should be used to raise temples to the God of War, and to expand the student barracks in the Agoge, and to raise the cities of the descendants of Vegeta, not be splintered and burned.

Smoke covers the Great Forest now. Agghus casts his gaze through the haze and the canopy, he senses with his ki. Nothing. Not even that Wolves that had been assaulting him. He felt only trees. He couldn't have killed them all, not yet. The boy is gone. If only he had been a hair faster.

There is only one thing to do. Agghus plummets back towards earth.

 **~Zelli~**

Zelli doesn't dream in hyperspace. But, somehow, her mind moves. She explained it to Daan—who has no mind—what it's like:

Imagine that you live in a regular world, filled with air. Suddenly, you blink, and you realize that the air is actually red jello. You're still moving at the same speed, but now you realize why you are so slow.

It is the same thing with the mind in the hyperspace jump. In that instant, the sparks leap across one singular neural bridge—and the thought is as slow as gelatin.

"Jello?" Daan had said.

Daan had searched his databanks.

"Ohhh… Jello… The Icarus hunk loves jello."

Zelli thought, _the Earth was our mother, once,_ and her pod shifted out of hyperspace.

 **~Agghus~**

Agghus made landfall—and a hundred trees, each ten thousand years old, were ripped from their roots.

If he had been a Saiyan of old, like the War God, Prince Vegeta, or his brethren, the forest would be flat for a hundred miles, and Vandakir, the scapegoat Vandakir, would be ashes and smoke. But Agghus was a product of this twilight age, all human but for a few drops of saiyan blood. Only a few hundred trees. There was only one thing to do.

The royal emissary must be killed.

His sacrifice must remain a secret.

His whereabouts and direction were unknown.

Agghus could not return to his nation a failure.

The warrior planted his feet, drew in a breath and ascended to the Second Level of Super Saiyan. A feat he had not dared for years. He prepared to blow himself up.

In one of the ancient legends, the War God had also destroyed himself to destroy an alien demon. He had been reborn.

So would Agghus be reborn after his victorious sacrifice, in the next universe, as a true saiyan, a full Saiyan, on their homeworld.

His skin began to glow. Splinters in the crater at his feet vaporized to ash.

 **~Zelli~**

The orb filled Zelli's command screen with colors she had only dreamed of: blue and green. Red, yellow, gray, white, yes, but blue and green. The orb glowed with it.

"Captain Gaia…"

She did not need to be told. She could see, with her very own eyes.

"Captain Gaia…"

She felt like a child again, coming home for lunch.

"Zelli!"

"WHAT!" Zelli shrieked. "In the moon-loving home of Bamba, what?!"

"The life readings…"

Zelli's heart flickered. Minerals could be green. Copper oxide was green.

"Yes?"

"They're off the charts."

She felt redeemed. Calm, graceful, a true interstellar pilot. Perhaps she would meditate, center herself around this victory. No, definitely not. She punched the ceiling with joy.

"Let's take her in for a closer look!"

 **~Agghus~**

Agghus felt the full force of his life, on the verge of release. His ki would rip apart the forest for a hundred square miles. Not bad, for a weak bloodline.

Someone appeared behind him, too fast for a Wolf. Too fast for… anyone. A dagger pricked his jugular vein. Another covered his mouth.

"Not today, my friend."

Ki rushed the poison into Agghus's brain and darkness followed.


	2. Chapter 2: Life Signals

**Chapter II**

 **The Chief Astronomer**

A shadow on top of the world, that is how the astronomer imagined himself. He knew reality was not far off. The observation deck of Starlook Temple was the highest point in Federation City, rivaled in height by only a few of mankind's other great works, and the city spread beneath the astronomer, a sea of torch and lantern fire.

Federation Sentries patrolled the skies above Federation City, that was true. The astronomer was not _really_ the highest soul in the city. Black raptors against the black—he spotted their paths from time to time as the sentries blotted out the stars behind them. But the astronomer did not let this inconsistency malign his solitude. At the peak of Starlook, from midnight to sunup, he was alone. Sometimes sad, sometimes at peace.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him. The astronomer closed his ledger.

The balding crown of the Chief Astronomer bobbed up the stairwell, and the muscular old man stepped out onto the deck. A high altitude breeze yanked on his light evening robe.

"Chief Astronomer."

"Good evening." The Chief Astronomer greeted his underling by name. "Cold up here."

"Always, sir."

The two men stood quiet, watching the sky, as astronomers will do. Soon, purple was bleeding up the curtain of the sky, the astronomer's work coming to a close.

"You're up early," the astronomer remarked to his superior.

"Actually I am up very late," his Chief replied. He sighed. "I am having trouble sleeping of late, what with the going-ons in the world. The Nikin Royal House has been exceptionally aggressive lately. There was another skirmish in the borderlands."

The astronomer knew his Chief was of Nikin lineage, and based on his age, he would have been prime fighting age for the last Nikin rebellion. He was built like a warrior, anyway, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest.

"Bloody fools," the Chief added.

It gave the astronomer great relief to know his Chief had somehow escaped the brainwashing the Nikin gave their youth.

"We astronomers have more important things to worry about," the astronomer said, gesturing to the changeless stars. They both laughed. Laughed at the joke, laughed at the truth of the matter.

Because they knew that in the celestial spheres, the affairs of men were predicted, and in the stars' movements, fates predicted. But more than astrology, the peoples of the world turned their eyes to the sky for a single reason: to catch sight of threat. Death came from the sky, from the space beyond the sky, so their forebears had predicted—and many of the great heroes of old had laid down their lives protecting the planet from such alien threats.

"Will there be war?" the Chief said, echoing the astronomer's thoughts. "Surely reason should prevail. But my stomach tells me otherwise. Sometimes I feel we are just counting down the days to the Harbinger."

The word sent chills down the astronomer's spine, though he thought of the prophecy often. A falling star, that heralded the judgment of the Earth. The astronomer burped lightly. He was a man who dealt in science, in astronomy and astrology. The Harbinger was more legend than fact, the actual prophecy lost to the sands.

"What is that?" the astronomer asked aloud. A sudden light had appeared on the edge of dawn, nearly as bright as a planet. The astronomer regretted his outburst—how foolish to forget a planet sitting on the horizon.

"Bulma have mercy," the Chief gasped. "I think it's getting brighter."

The astronomers looked at each other, horrified. Intrigued.

"The Goku must be told at once," the Chief declared. The wind howled as he blasted off the observation deck and dove down towards the city. Still so powerful, even in his age. Just who was that old man, warrior or scientist? The astronomer lost track of his precious ledger and it dropped and rang upon the stone.

 **Agghus**

A black blur became a lightish blur. A fog became a headache. Agghus groaned. He pushed himself up with one hand and test the cloth bandage around his neck with the other. A raging headache.

"Easy there, friend. You're still pretty hammered."

Crossed blades came into focus on, the small, sheathed blade that had been used to poison Agghus, and his heavy Wolf Fang Dagger, sashed to the ninja's hip. A smile hid behind the ninja's cloth mask. The Nikin warrior muttered something about killing him, and his murderous threat was met with laughter.

"In your state, I'm not sure you'll be able to throw a straight punch. Much less a ki wave."

The ninja's eyes twinkled in the thin slit in his face-mask. He put his hands on his hips.

"And if you _do_ try any of the Nikin-blow-myself-up-for-God-and-country bullshit—I will be on you faster than a boozer on rum."

The ninja—warrior—whoever he was—waggled a fist in Agghus's direction. Agghus's head reeled.

"And then I'll leave you, knocked out, trussed up like an goose at your buddies' feet, instead of giving you the dignity of walking over to them of your own power… They're right over there, by the way."

The edges of the room were coming into focus. It was small and dirty, a flimsy wooden storage shed, no doubt, at the edge of the Wolfwood. Through a pane of brown glass, a group of Nikin soldiers were just visible, standing at ease.

"Fuck me," Agghus grumbled.

"Ah, the truth of your predicament is becoming clear, eh?"

The ninja was right. Agghus was trapped. A warrior's death was no longer an option. He would have to return to the General Court, an utter failure. There was no more awful fate for a warrior of his class.

The ninja folded his arms. There was something familiar about him, something remembered, and in that moment Agghus felt such a pure hatred as he never had in his life. His veins throbbed. His pain receded to fury. He began to stand.

"Not quite," the ninja said, and he moved—struck—before so much as the hint of an aura could rise around Agghus. Pressure points spasmed across Agghus's body and he collapsed like a cloth puppet. The ninja set him gently—insultingly gently—on the bare wooden floor.

"Alright, slugger, listen up. The only reason you are alive right now is to deliver a message to the General Court."

Agghus's rage flickered. That attack—Agghus was still trying to comprehend it. So fast, so precise. It shut him down. Even in his drugged state, Agghus could fully register the skill. He was dealing with an Champion Level warrior, perhaps one of a few hundred on the planet.

"If the Nikin want to start another bullshit war, then so be it."

For the first time, the ninja's voice registered something beside amusement. Disdain. Maybe anger.

"We can't stop you. But stick to the laws of the Federation Treaty. No innocent casualties. No cities leveled. No war crimes. And know that if you don't—there will be no more Nikin."

So Agghus had been prevented from taking a warrior's death, from salvaging something of his mission, for this: to deliver an existential threat to the Generals, his highest superiors and personal heroes. His blood was curdling with anger. Who was this warrior?!

"Well, tootle-loo!"

A flash and a bang ripped the shed apart. Agghus staggered into the arms of his comrades, coughing in dust, still woozy from the poison, a single thought on his brain. Who was that man?

 **Zelli**

Zelli lingered on the edge of morning, watching new continents and oceans cross the line from night to morning. She zoomed from spot to spot across the globe, investigating the biosphere with its all-too-familiar inhabitants, while Daan prepped from planet entry. Her excitement had reached dangerous levels.

Zelli feared she would explode.

"Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!" Daan whirred.

 _How will I be greeted?_ Zelli wondered. As a long lost orphan, returning to the family? With awe and curiosity? Civilization had regressed even further from the time her ancestors had departed in their great spaceliners. Children ran around barefoot, homes were mud-brick, much of the trade seemed barter—a live chicken for a sack of grain. And they had chickens! Zelli hoped her arrival would not scare them.

"Oh my!"

"For Goku's sake, what is it!?" Zelli hollered at her dumb copilot.

"These readings, Captain—"

"What about them?!"

"They don't make sense. Even for me, and I'm a very sophisticated program."

"Oh, shut up about you and take us down already."

"There's more energy on this planet that the biomass should be able to hold—a million times over."

"Blah blah blah we'll figure it out when we get there. Come on! The ship's done prepping and we've transmitted our findings back to the mothership. Take us down—right there!"

Zelli pointed to a city that was just crossing into the morning, a metropolis like a freckle on the planet, the biggest one yet.

"Zelli, wait! We need more time to prep! We should follow protocol and study—"

"Take me to their leader! Let's get a move on!"

"Zelli they can fly!" Daan shouted, with uncharacteristic volume.

Daan zoomed into the city. A young woman in blue silks, glorious billowing pants and a coat, decorated in red and gold, hung like an ornament in the sky. She carried a large sack of parcels, maybe scrolls. _Is it a trick of the light?_ To answer her question, the messenger-woman dove back into the city, the wind spinning around her clothes.

"They can fly," Zelli squeaked. She remembered the legends, of course. The Z Team had taught the people of Earth to increase their ki, but the power needed to fly…? She asked to see another, and Daan promptly pulled up a dozen windows of messengers, soldiers, sky-rickshaws and what seemed like average people soaring above the earth. It was nearly too much.

"Take us down."

"Zelli, let's take a deep breath, and use a moment—"

"Captain Gaia, switching to manual controls," Zelli announced, and she activated the manual steering throttle and began her descent to the planet below.

 **Vandakir**

The Wolf Clan and their allies—the Boar Clan and the Turtle School—did not have diluted Saiyan bloodlines. They had, in fact, no Saiyan in them at all. Their ancestors were all just regular humans who had learned to increase their ki during the Z-Awakening. Some, like the Wolf Clan, used their newfound abilities to draw strength from the Earth itself. But they were still only human, still only so strong.

Which meant that if Vandakir could only learn to become a Super Saiyan, he would instantly become the strongest one in the room.

The warriors of the Wolf Clan did not seem worried; Vandakir did not blame them. If he could go Super Saiyan, he certainly would have done so by now. He was not even bound. The only thing wrapped around his body was a healing poultice bandaged over his shoulder.

"What do you want from me?"

The elders of the Wolf Clan, Hog Clan and Turtle School sat on mats along the cavern walls.

"I won't turn against the Nikin, even though they tried to kill me!"

"Of course not," replied the man in the chair at the end of the cavern. "You are Nikin, and Nikin never betrays Nikin, except for the good of the state and the worship of the God of War."

The deep voice added, "Fucking idiots."

Vandakir tensed. He clenched his good hand. Was this going to be it? Was he finally going to become a Super Saiyan? He strained against some invisible bonds. No, of course not.

"Is something bothering you?"

The one skylight in the cavern—a simply hole in the rocky roof—shown a yellow beam of light into Vandakir's eyes, and blinded him from seeing the man right before him. He didn't like it, didn't like the voice, didn't like the old man's long, pointy nails, hanging over the arms of his throne. There was something off about this elder, something different.

"Well, I'm wounded in a room full of my enemies."

"We saved your life, you ungrateful wretch."

Vandakir sighed. It was useless to struggle.

"Yes and… Thank you for that, whoever you are. But you should have just let me die. I cannot go back, and I won't turn against my own people. All I ask is that you make it quick."

Vandakir bowed his head in a ceremonial gesture of sacrifice. The old man snorted with laughter.

"Is the play over? Should we clap?"

Paper shuffled, and he tossed the treaty Vandakir had been carrying into Vandakir's lap.

"You think we need your help unraveling this plan? The Nikin want to bait the Wolves into a war, momentarily distract their allies, and conquer territory piece by piece until they again rival the Federation in power. Doesn't take a genius to sort this out. We don't need you to turn over information."

The old man leaned forward, cutting off the light, and Vandakir realized that he was not a man at all—men do not have long pointy ears, or short fangs, or green skin.

Piccolo smiled, "We have much bigger plans for you."

 **Zelli**

The rim of the planet slipped out of Zelli's view as she pointed her ship's nose towards the earth. Daan chattered frantically but his captain was in the zone, now. The Zelli-zone. The surface neared and all the wonders of Zelli's imagination—and the hopes of her lost people's survival—began to manifest:

Teal rivers in brown deserts.

Pine forests between snowy mountain caps.

A city, sprawling with stone towers and open-air causeways, golden roofed palaces and muddy canals, flags of every color flapping in the marketplaces.

It was all heartbreakingly beautiful. The ship punched into a bank of clouds.

"Captain Gaia, life signals approaching!"

"Up here?!"

"Confirmed. Approaching fast," Daan said urgently. The fact that he wasn't being surly frightened Zelli.

On screen, Daan targeted two moving shapes. A second later, the ship broke the cloud-layer, and the creatures came into view. They wore metal armor and carried metal spears of ancient Earth warriors, and were approaching at nearly five hundred klicks an hour.

"PEOPLE CAN FLY HERE?!" Zelli exclaimed.

"You knew that already!" Daan snapped.

The throttle rattled in Zelli's hands; she was starting to regret switching to manual. Piloting was not really her thing; captaining was her thing. The first flying soldier hit and immediately the ship started wailing.

"Warning! Warning! Foreign object on the hull! Warning!"

Zelli had felt the ship, a ball of metal capable of passing through the corona of a star—rattle with the impact.

"Oh man oh man what do I do?! Daan!"

"Warning! Warning! Foreign object—"

The second flying-man struck and they began to spin. Gravity pulled on Zelli's stomach like a slipknot. Despite the centripetal force, they clung on.

"They appear to be some kind of warriors—"

"What do they want?!"

"Warning! Warning! External shield breached!"

"Apparently to destroy our fuselage."

"Not helping!"

More life signals, more flying soldiers were approaching fast.

"Warning! Warning!"

Through the glare of the alarm lights, Zelli watched a visual of the two humanoids on her ship—one stabbing the engine casing with his spear, the other prying at the metal barehanded. His hands!

"Well, tell them to stop!"

"Warning! Warning!"

"WE COME IN PEACE," Daan broadcast to the men destroying the ship. "WE ARE FRIENDS!"

He began to cycle the message through ancient earth languages. A rear thrust erupted in a stream of fire. ("Warning! Warning! Rear thruster damage!") The flying-men shielded their faces from the plasma, and moved across the ship. A third, a female soldier, landed on the nose, directly over Zelli. He held on with one hand and used the other to smash his spearpoint into the cockpit.

"Warning! Warning!"

If the ship's cockpit was to disappear, the warrior and Zelli would be only a few yards away, looking into each other's eyes. Suddenly, she had an idea.

"Daan, screen down!"

The display screen and nosecone became transparent. Zelli and the soldier saw each other face to face, and the soldier froze. She was only a few years older than Zelli. Clouds spun like cotton-candy in a centrifuge around them.

"STOP! PLEASE!" Zelli begged for all she was good for.

A second later, the woman's expression returned: cold. The look of a soldier. The spearhead came down, warping the cockpit, fracturing the screen beneath, and severing the connection to black.

"WARN-NING! WARN-NING!" the alarm screamed distortedly.

"Daan?" Zelli squeaked. She wanted to be a kid again and go hide under a blanket.

"Maneuver Twenty-Seven."

Zelli took a deep breath and recalled her training. That Maneuver Twenty-Seven? The spear came down again, as hard as an artillery shell. Splinters of the glass screen showered across her face. She took a breath. Atmosphere howled through a break in the cockpit.

"Execute Maneuver Twenty-Seven."

The spear came down, and the ship exploded.

 **The Chief Astronomer**

"Mister Goku!" the Chief Astronomer thundered. "Mister Goku!"

He raised his fist to hammer on the door. The guards crossed their spears in front of him. Gohan-class, elites. They would filet even a strong man like him if they wanted to. Outside, the city was waking up, the markets coming to life. A boom rang out, the work of an early morning demolition crew. But still, the Goku slept on. The Chief Astronomer had waited long enough; he decided to risk it and pound on the door. A bolt slid behind the door.

The Chief Astronomer caught his breath. The secretary behind him did the same.

"First Lady Pella," the Astronomer managed to gasp.

"Is there something we can do for you? My husband is resting."

The Chief Astronomer found that his mouth was stuffed with cotton. First Lady Pella, the wife of the Fiftieth Goku, was a beautiful woman—her rich saiyan bloodline had helped her retain her beauty as she aged—and never had this fact been more apparent to the Chief Astronomer than as she stood in her bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but a bed sheet.

"Chief Astronomer?"

"Uh, First Lady…"

Lady Pella held the silk sheet modestly against her chest. Somewhere beyond that draped goddess, the Fiftieth Goku, President of the World Federation of Peace, was recuperating. The Goku was an object of fascination in his own right. The single most influential man on the planet, and one of the youngest ever to hold the seat, the Goku had been a Martial Arts Champion before his equally successful foray into politics. Being a direct descendent of the First Goku hadn't hurt him in either venture.

The sound of a body, accelerating down the hall, drew their attention.

"A message for Mister Goku!"

"Oh, now what?" the secretary groaned.

A Federation messenger blasted down the hall. He pumped to a halt at the door, forcing Lady Pella to hold her sheet with both hands as the currents sent it whipping. Women of the Heron School, the Chief Astronomer made a mental note, are as bold as the rumors hold.

"Master Secretary, a message for the Goku!"

"Get in line," the Chief Astronomer snapped.

"What is it!" a voice shouted from beyond the door. There was the sound of clothing rustling, and the Fiftieth Goku himself, President of the World Federation, pulled the door open the rest of the way. He was flushed from exertion and had only begun to button his loose shirt.

"I'm here!" the Goku grinned. Lady Pella raised an eyebrow. "What's the news?"

Famously affable, the Fiftieth Goku was. The Chief Astronomer had met him only a handful of times, and had always found him pleasant, even warm. But to be mirthful when interrupted during… this? The man's good human lived up to the legends.

"Mister Goku, an alien spacecraft was just destroyed in the sky over Federation City!"

The Chief Astronomer could not breathe. So his estimation of the star had been right. But already destroyed? He realized the Goku was looking at him, searching his thoughts.

"Who knows about this?"

The Goku was no longer flushed. He nodded to his wife and she disappeared.

"A handful of officers, and one of the sentries who survived."

He buttoned up his collar.

"Bring them all to the Bunker."

He cracked his knuckles and nodded to the Chief Astronomer.

"Let's get to it, then."

The hint of a smile never left his features.

 **Zelli**

The rear thruster had backfired, shorting the fusion coil. The engine exploded in an enormous fireball. The ship was obliterated, its circuitry liquified, its hull blown to slivers. Four of the five sentries were ripped to pieces; the last managed to shield himself and was caught by a second patrol as he fell to earth. The sky was bright with death—save for a tiny bubble-shield in the center of it all, which used the commotion to jet away from Federation City as fast as possible. Maneuver Twenty Seven worked exactly as intended.

Zelli had traveled in her bubble-shield extremely fast for many miles, beyond the stone towers of the metropolis, over a patchwork of fields and lines of forest, until her drop-pack ran out of power. She crash-landed at the edge of a grassy pasture, smashing through a heavy wooden fence and plowing for several meters through the topsoil until she finally stopped, the shield gave out, and her cloaking shut down.

After a few seconds sitting in the smoking dirt, Zelli attempted to stand, but her pack was too heavy and she was still woozy from the g-force. She fell back hard on her butt. Her shorts were starting to smoke from the scorched earth.

"One small step for man…" she grunted.

Zelli hauled herself clumsily to her feet. Her glorious return to the planet Earth—the first of her race to do so in thousands of years—had involved a mid-air attack, her ship exploding, and a singed pair of buttcheeks.

"Are you okay, Captain Gaia?"

Complete disaster did not begin to cover it.

"I don't know, Daan."

She did not have pants. She had not put on her expedition pants, and now they were long gone. She looked up at the morning sky—she had never see a sunrise over a real planet before, only from the portal on a spacecraft. She had never seen dawn break through clouds and dewey leaves of grass. But all she could feel was lost.

Daan's alarm sensor began beeping.

"Life signals approaching."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

It had been over thirty years since the Nikin went to war, but the wounds were still fresh in the mind of every member of the Federation. Gold armor, blue warpaint, red blood. The smell of molten earth.

The fuse had been lit when the Aiba School attempted to defect from the Federation. There was a dispute over land and power with a rival school. Insults were cast, skirmishes broke out in the borderlands. It was political and power struggles as usual in the Federation. The Forty-Ninth Goku sided with the Aiba's rivals. The rebellion would be quietly quelled by Federation peacekeepers, and the world's peace would endure.

The Nikin had other plans.

The Aiba were a Nikin affiliate, one of the favorite sons. They were sword carriers, but their bloodlines traced straight back to the War God himself. A Federation peacekeeping regiment was dispatched to the Aiba's headquarters to talk (and wrestle, if need be, some sense into the Masters of the School). Along the way, they were met by a Nikin Royal Legion, men wearing black cloth over gold armor. Men riding under a single banner, black threads and the red eyes of war.

Not a single Federation fighter was left alive. Not a single body survived the incineration. Those that died of their wounds were immolated in a pyre. So began the Nikin rebellion against the World Federation.

The bloodshed was still fresh in the Fiftieth Goku's mind as he stood before the Federation Congress and listened to the fear rise.

"The Nikin know no retreat!" the delegate from the Great Saiyaman Cult was shouting. At one time, the Saiyaman Cult had been a global power, but their influence, like the gray hair of their envoy, was thinning. "Now that blood has been shed, they will only move towards war!"

The shouting continued, rose. The Nikin delegates roared. The Fiftieth Goku sighed and waved his hand. He spoke softly and the great hall went silent.

"The Honorable Nikin will not go to war, not with the World Martial Arts tournament so near on the horizon. If the Nikin wish to prove their martial prowess, they will do it there. On fair terms. For the world to see."

He looked pointedly at the Nikin delegation. It was stale bait to hang under their nose, but it might be enough yet to distract and divide the Royal Council, at least temporarily.

"Furthermore!" the Fiftieth Goku raised his voice and rose to his feet. "What blood has been spilled? Thus far, neither the Honorable Nikin nor the Wolf Clan of the Great Forest have claimed any deaths, or even any injuries… Certainly, a great number of trees were destroyed. And, well, I'll be the first to admit, I love trees. We all love trees. But certainly trees do not lead to war. Where was I?

"Injuries," coughed his secretary.

"Ah yes! The Nikin delegation has announced that their warrior was returned to them in good health—"

And thank the First Goku for that, the Fiftieth prayed quietly. A full legion of Nikin warriors and Wolf Clan Stewards had been present for the hand-off, which had been fine, though a bit bumbling due to the inebriation of the Nikin henchman.

The Fiftieth could not help but wince. He hoped the drugs did not wear off too quickly. The Nikin were not known for their tolerance of failure, and their warrior had certainly, completely failed.

"And the Stewards of the Wolf Clan have assured us that the Nikin ambassador they recovered in the woods is in good health, as well. Injured, but recovering quickly."

"Yes, and were is our ambassador?"

Tagira, leader of the Nikin delegation, stabbed her words into the Goku.

"If the Federation desires peace," she continued. "It would be wise not to keep a Nikin prince prisoner."

"Your man is no prisoner," One-Eyed Yakuma spoke. The Wolf Clan could not boast a robust army, but there was no weakness in their leader. The Goku had an abiding admiration for that old man—a bandit in his youth, turned leader by war, turned sage by his years. He could always be relied on for steady judgment. His was a voice that could quiet storms.

"When he is healthy, your ambassador will be returned. Before the eyes of this very Senate. Have no fear, honorable delegates of the Nikin, the Wolf Clan will make good on these words. We have no desire for war. The wounds from the last one are still too fresh."

Yakuma the One-Eye bowed to the Nikin, then to the Goku. Yes, the wounds he spoke of were still too fresh; raw as the day the Federation Peacekeeping mission was slaughtered; red as the day the Goku's father died.

 _My sons._ The words pulled like hooks in the tissue of Agghus's mind. _What will happen to my sons?_

"My Generals—"

"You have said enough, Lieutenant Agghus. Speak only when spoken to."

The dim outlines of the Nikin Generals leaned their heads together to speak. From his seat in the pit, many meters below, Agghus felt only a cold sense of wonder. Would his failure be extreme enough so that his punishment extended to next of kin? Such things were not uncommon in the Nikin. Sons paid for their father's crimes, and vice versa. Tainted weeds were pulled up by the roots, and their seeds gathered and burned.

The Council meeting had lasted more than two hours. Every agonizing detail had been reviewed and relived: Agghus's failure to execute the scapegoat Vandakir, his moment of hesitation, his attempted suicide and his humiliation at the mercy of the masked warrior. The Generals were thorough, Agghus had to hand them that. Long live the Honorable Nikin.

In the Royal Court, much of the civil affairs of the Nikin state, the Cult of the War God, and the Agoge, the military training academy, were conducted by the purest descendants of the War God's bloodline. Matters of the military, however, were overseen by the Council of Generals, and a seat on the council was determined by power alone.

The Council of Generals was no place for a soft royal like Vandakir. The only way a seat passed from General to General was victory in mortal combat. It was just one of the reasons why the Nikin continued to be the most powerful army in the Federation, while other schools rose and feel. In the Nikin, they lived only to fight, and conquer, and die. Long Live the Honorable Nikin.

The only light in the pit was a pair of weak torches; the Generals were shrouded by shadow. Still, Agghus could tell when they turned their eyes down to him.

"We have concluded our deliberations, First Lieutenant Agghus."

"My Generals, may I make one request?" Agghus bowed his head, and spoke into the pause that followed. "May I go the slow way, before the full Agoge, so that the students—and my sons—may learn the cost of failure?"

Agghus was not afraid of pain. Not afraid of the torturous death reserved for enemies of the State. But he wanted his line to continue. The Generals may consider it punishment enough for his sons to watch their father be ripped apart slowly, and perhaps allow them to serve the Nikin with that inspiration.

"We may grant this wish, in time. But as for now, we have other plans for you," the faceless specter replied.

Agghus did not dare speak. He did not know how to feel relieved, or terrified.

"You were sent with a message to us. We will send you now back with a message to deliver."

They were moving again. Again, without warning, and suddenly they were racing through the brush. Vandakir felt well enough to run—he felt strong, after the senzu salve—but the Wolf Clan insisted on carrying him on their backs as they did Master Piccolo. It was a little annoying, being carried like a child, but, Vandakir admitted, he was still not as fast or as quiet as the Wolves.

And if a piggyback ride was good enough for a Namekian demigod, it was damn well good enough for him, too.

Piccolo was alive. This was just one of the many facts that Vandakir had gathered. The other's included:

The Wolf Clan (and their allies, including the Namekian), believed that Vandakir was part of some prophecy, and that is why they had saved his life.

The Great Forest went as deep below ground as it did above, with a vast network of tunnels built beneath the roots.

The Wolves' bows and arrows were made from sacred wood and the gutstrings of sabre-toothed tigers, material with a great natural capacity for storing ki. The warriors filled their weapons with ki that was then transferred into the arrow. (Vandakir was fascinated by their weapons, having see so few in the Nikin. How could a weapon of wood and string upstage a ki blast? He had always wondered. Now, he knew. It _was_ a ki blast).

Piccolo did not like getting piggyback rides. This was not really a fact, just something Vandakir had inferred from watching the old Namekian grit his fangs as he rode through the forest.

After a few minutes of running, they arrived at their destination, a long cavern hidden behind a waterfall. The troop of thirty warriors entered without so much as a splash.

"Put me down!" Piccolo barked, as soon as his carrier had come to a halt. _Theory confirmed._

The Wolves went about setting up barrier to disguise their presence. Their footsteps made no sound, and the cavern reverberated only with the ceaseless groan of the waterfall. A medic changed the salve on Vandakir's shoulder, and again he was alone. Piccolo spoke with the Wolf Stewards.

"This is the place…"

"Still no word…"

"The forest is already being searched…"

Master Piccolo cocked his head to Vandakir and raised an eyebrow perilously close to the crown of his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, just hanging out."

 _Sarcasm? Really? Great way to impress the many-time savior of the planet._ Vandakir wanted to kick himself.

"You know, for a descendent of Vegeta, you're much more of a Gohan," Piccolo growled.

"I'm a special guy."

Vandakir swallowed. His training in the Agoge had not made him a true Nikin warrior, nor had it, apparently, beat out of him the habit of opening his mouth. It had been truly good for nothing.

"Look," he continued, suffering the heat of Piccolo's gaze. "I just want to know what's going on. The Nikin want me dead. That includes anyone around me."

"We know," Piccolo rumbled.

"And I'm not talking about you guys. Or the rest of the Wolf Warriors. I'm talking about all your little forest shrines and dirt-cities, zapped off the map! I'm talking about mamas and babies, caught in the fire! You want that?"

Piccolo narrowed his eyes. Vandakir realized he had just been shouting at Piccolo. _The Piccolo._ A founding member of the Legendary Z Fighter—secretly, Vandakir's favorite one.

"Much more of a Gohan," Piccolo muttered.

"The Nikin will level this entire forest—"

"Just shut up already," Piccolo spat. "We know the Nikin will destroy everything. We can't have that. And we can't give you up, either. Not yet, anyway, until we learn what your role is in the prophecy. So we're getting you out of here to somewhere they can protect you."

"Well, what idiot made that prophecy?"

"I did," said Piccolo flatly.

A vein in Piccolo's forehead throbbed. He put two fingers between his eyes and the point began to glow with pink energy. A beam cannon. Even in his ancient, dried out, hunched over state, Piccolo's power sky-rocketed. Vandakir had opened his mouth one too many times. But off all the ways to die, he thought, this was the best he could imagine.

"SHOW YOURSELF!" the Namekian roared.

Every spear and bow in the cavern pointed toward the waterfall door. The curtain of water parted as a man stepped through.

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

"Three life signals approaching fast! Non-human," Daan announced. "No, make that seven."

"I can't see them!" Zelli cried. The field was full of towering reeds. "What are they?"

"They appear to be Deinonychus."

Daan flashed a visual on the holo screen that dropped down from the lid of Zelli's hat. The creatures were lean, bipedal reptiles, with razor-sharp teeth and wicked, curving claws.

"Oh, shit! Velociraptors!"

"Actually—"

"Can you zap them?!"

"After concealing us from that blast, I'm afraid my battery is too low. I might be able to—"

Too slow. With an awful screech, the first of the monsters charged through the break in the fence, claws like kitchen knives dangling in front of it. _Well,_ Zelli thought, _I had a good run_.

"HEEEE-YAW!"

Zelli could not see what happened. One moment, Daan was charging his taser, and the first of the dinosaurs was opening its jaws. There was a series of loud cracks—bang! bang bang! Machine-gun quick. The next moment, the dinosaurs were laid out, scattered like bowling pins, flailing their limbs wildly.

"What the f—"

A boy in demin overalls stood with a wooden cane on the grassy rise beside Zelli.

"GIT ON BACK TO THE PASTURE!"

The dazed reptiles, sprawled out awkwardly on the grass, climbed unsteadily up to their hindclaws.

"I said GIT!"

The boy waved his stick around, and the deinonychus scrambled over each other to get back through the broken fence, eyes bugging out of their welted, scaly skulls. The boy planted his hands on his hips and prodded them along with his glare, until the last wisp of the last tail slipped back through the shivering reeds, and the world was still.

The boy stood motionless, his face full of morning sun, posing like a statue, like some kind of victorious god—he burped—some kind of victorious, hillbilly god. If she were several years younger, Zelli thought, and the boy's same age, she would swoon for him then and there. She still might crawl into his arms and hide out until she woke from this nightmare. He looked around.

"Still learning?"

"What? I'm sorry?"

"Still learning to fly? Ya crash-land here?"

"I… guess so."

"Yer lucky. I can't fly, not quite. I thought I might last year, but no dice. My pop couldn't. My gram could, but she's too old, now."

He smiled. He had big, white teeth, babyish eyes and a nose that pointed up. He seemed to be about fourteen. Zelli's savior. He had a smudge of black dirt on his left cheek.

"Say, yer pretty shook up, ain't ya? Aw, lady, there ain't nothing to worry about! Those greenies look fierce but they ain't tough! Not so tough that a good smack won't send 'em runnin'!" The boy relived his brief battle and took satisfaction in his handiwork. "Yeah, not fierce. Mighty tasty, though… Yer not from around here, are ya?"

Zelli nodded her head slowly. From the waggle of her jaw, she discerned that it was hanging open.

"Ohhhh ya must be from far away, I ain't never seen a jacket like that. And that backpack, too! Are you from the City? I knew it! I wish Melo was here to see this! Say, would you like to come back home for a bite to eat, before you head back to the City? I'll get Gram to put you on something hot, she won't mind."

"I would, I would love that."

"Ah, great! Oh, bull, where are my manners! My name's Pokie."

He extended his hand and quickly withdrew it, wiping his dirty palm on his overall legs. After a string of mumbled apologies, he finally shook Zelli's hand. So who was she? Captain Gaia did not seem to suit the moment.

"Patrizelli… But my friends call me Zelli. And this is Daan."

Daan extended his periscope from the lid of Zelli's jumppack.

"At your service."

The blood drained from Pokie's face.

"That's a… that's a r-r-robot?"

"Technically, I am a program. I just happen to be operating a—"

"A robot! That means you're from outer space?!"

Zelli did not know what to say or do, so she just stood and felt the emotion surge within her. Pokie sprung back and brandished his stick.

"ALIEN! STAY BACK! YOU GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"Wait, Pokie—"

"Don't come any closer! I'll smash your alien mug…! Aw, crap, I have to get the Feds…!"

Pokie had scuttled a few more steps back toward the field, looking to make his exit, when Zelli began to cry. Not cry, bawl. Pokie didn't know her, they definitely weren't friends, but she felt like she needed him more than her own mother or father. Her legs gave out and she dropped to her knees.

"Don't leave me!" she sobbed.

Pokie looked at her. His staff lowered to his side.

"Aw, crap," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

~Vandakir~

Through a slit between the heavy curtains, Vandakir studied the city. Leon appeared at his shoulder and observed with him.

"Have you ever seen it?" Leon asked, referring to the city before them.

Vandakir shook his head. Anathra was the on the far side of the map from Nikin, beyond Karkaropolis and the Great Forest, on the western shores of the continent. Moreover, they were hated rivals. Not even Nikin exiles would set foot in western states.

Still, rumors of the city's beauty persisted, even in the heart of the Nikin royal court.

"There is the temple to Goku," Leon said, pointing out a lofty peak, not far from their window in the Congressional Palace. "And there is the High Temple of Gohan. The sacred fire of the city is kept burning in its lighthouse, there."

At the peak of the mountainous temple, encircled by pillars and capped in a golden dome, was a bright blue fire, which seemed to burn without flickering. Vandakir was in awe—not even the Great Temple of Vegeta compared to these structures, and there were so many of them. He had heard that Anathra was the treasure of world, and he had held a secret dream to see it, one day. He was not disappointed.

Leon continued pointing out the temples, stuck between martial schools, manors, gardens and museums. There were all of the familiar names, Goten and Trunks, Pan and Bulla, Kuririn, Crane, Turtle and Wolf—and one more.

"I don't believe it," Vandakir said, when Leon pointed out the distant, and noticeably smaller Temple to the God of War. "I didn't think Vegeta was worshipped here. Actually, I thought it was forbidden."

"We worship War in Anathra… Though, admittedly, not nearly as much," Leon winked. "That is Nikin propaganda. You are in the real world, now. You are going to have to shake off as much of that dirt as you can, if you want to see clearly. If you want to survive."

The rumors about Leon Cryzera, Ward of Anathra, had reached the Nikin Court, as well—at least, in private, the Nikin ladies could be heard gossiping about him. Vandakir was beginning to think that they were equally justified. Leon was half a head taller than Vandakir, and a Vegeta-Class fighter—he had won a World Tournament, and placed highly several other times. Silver hair flowed to his shoulders. He had the distinguished nose and chin, and the far-reaching gaze of a scholar. He was like a perfect human.

Now, Vandakir was beginning to understand just how he'd been saved from Agghus, and kept safe from the Nikin this entire time. He wasn't just running with a ragtag band of Wolves and a super-old Namekian the world thought was dead; they had an entire nation on their side.

"Do you know how we were able to accomplish this? How we were able to create this great work of art?" Leon pressed. "It is because we value both brain as well as brawn. Our citizens who cannot fight and fly are given just as much merit as those who can. And this is the result. _This_ is the product when you worship a god of both strength and wisdom, instead of violence and rage."

Leon smiled coldly, and walked back to join the others.

 _So much of my life has been a lie,_ Vandakir thought. And yet, looking out across the ancient city, gazing at the weathered temple-top of the War God, he could not help but feel a tinge of pride.

A flock of pteranodon leapt into the sky, beating their leathery wings and snapping their toothy beaks.

~The Chief Astronomer~

The Chief Astronomer did not have to look at the sentry's mouth. Her doctor had to unwrap the bandages around her mouth to allow her to speak, but that did not mean he had to look at it.

The flesh had been burned down to her jawbones, save for some muscular tissue around her lips, which had been fused into a single, charred ring. The Astronomer did not have to look at her face or her mouth, technically, but he would not look away. Despite the nightmarish vision of pain, he looked on—he felt, somehow, that he owed the sentry that, a tribute to her bravery.

After all, the only reason she was still alive was to deliver her final report _to him_.

"S-s-s…"

Reporting was no easy matter. The sentry struggled in earnest over every syllable. Still, she pressed on. _What an unbelievable soldier this woman was,_ the Astronomer thought. He corrected himself, _this woman is._

"Easy now. Take a breath."

A Gohan-Class warrior, the sentry had come from a rich Saiyan bloodline and a prominent family. She had attained the second level of Saiyan power and scored well in all her officer exams and tournaments. Given her pedigree and power, she could have likely joined the military in her home state of Koheku and had great success.

If that had been her path, she might have been a sergeant or a captain by now, enjoying a military career without the drudgery of daily labor and with all the trappings power. Instead of a respectable posting in her home state, the sentry had chosen to serve as a sentry in the International City—a thankless job, and not even particularly well paid. She had chosen to serve people—not just her people, but all people of the Earth.

And this was how she died: blind, horrifically burned and struggling to form a simple word.

"You climbed on the metal face of the thing, the alien, and began to stab it with your saber. Commander Petrus was on its rear, attacking the fire jets. Sergeant Jomai was in pursuit. Then it exploded, yes?" the Chief Astronomer said, trying to help her along.

A wobble of her head indicated 'no.'

"No?"

"S-s-s… S-s-s… S-s-saw inside."

The Chief Astronomer felt the ghost of his master, breathing over his shoulder, commanding him to listen.

"You saw inside the alien?"

A slight tilt of the sentry's head signified 'yes'.

"What did you see?"

Air whistled around the scar tissue in her throat as the sentry drew a deep breath, and in one breath she said, "A girl."

She rasped and coughed while these words sank in.

"A girl…" the Chief Astronomer echoed.

Given strength by her successful speech, the sentry continued, "Sh-sh-she said-d, 'Stop-p-p-please."

"She spoke to you. She exited the alien craft?"

The sentry neither indicated no or yes. Her breath sounded as the rustling of wet leaves in her chest. The Chief Astronomer watched her, all but a corpse, holding on to life to tell him this. Now he understood. He did not know what it, but he understood.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The sentry tilted her head, indicating 'you're welcome.' The Chief Astronomer no longer feared or hated to look at her. He could only admire her final display of strength.

"I will get the doctor for you," the Chief Astronomer whispered, touching her hand lightly.

Against all possibility, the sentry clutched back with the stubs of her bandaged fingers. She began to pronounce the word, 'no.' Her grip was strong.

"I w-w-want-t y-you," she breathed. "I want-t-t you t-to."

For a moment, the Chief Astronomer did not think he could, or that he should. Why should he have the privilege of helping the sentry end her life? But he was an emissary of the Fiftieth Goku, he conceded. At this moment, he was perhaps the closest thing to the Goku that the sentry had. He positioned his palm an inch over her heart and began to gather a needle of ki. Still holding her hand, he pierced her heart.

Her name was Briseis, the Chief Astronomer reminded himself. He could not forget her name.

~Zelli~

A twenty five leagues outside the capitol, Captain Patrizelli watched as the ladle turned and dumped a brown, chunky sludge into the wooden bowl in her lap.

"There y'are," Gram murmured. "And a little more… Now eat up!"

Gram returned to her cauldron to ladle out another bowl. She shuffled across the room and handed it to Pokie. The young farmer's glare had not left the side of Zelli's face.

"Can't believe I have to share my lunch with an alien," Pokie fumed.

"Don't be rude, she's our guest," Gram scolded, and she smacked the back of his head with the heavy wooden ladle.

"Ow!"

"I'm not a bad alien," Zelli protested.

"Shaddup, alien," Pokie snarled. "Only good alien's a dead alien."

Zelli had learned, in fits and starts from Gram and Pokie, the reason why aliens—and by aliens, they meant _her—_ were so feared. It wasn't just because they were backwoods farmers, in some decrepit caveman world. There had been a prophecy, after the annihilation of Majin Buu, that someday, another creature would come from space, and it would be the doom of the planet.

That's what Pokie thought Patrizelli Gaia was: the destroyer of humanity. The Earth's greatest threat. Not a lonely, seventeen year old girl, who missed her family and her friends and her home ship. _No._ In Pokie's mind, Zelli belonged in a lineup with Frieza, Cell and Buu.

"Rude," Gram scolded again, and she cracked Pokie again. Despite being an old, hunched up woman, Gram had some real strength. Every time she hit Pokie, the entire room shook. Zelli thought it might be a good idea to politely try the soup she had been offered. Her neck and skull weren't quite as hardy as Pokie's.

Of course, maybe Gram was just being nice so she could poison Zelli. Zelli sniffed her steaming stew—it actually smelled pretty good. And she was _super_ hungry. _Oh well,_ Zelli thought _, if Gram is trying to poison me, good job._

She tried a sip. It was rich and salty. She ate a spoonful, it was full of something savory and chewy, with chunks of potatoes and carrots. Sweet Goku, if this was poison, Zelli was happy to die. She buried her face in the bowl.

"What is this?!" Zelli exclaimed, momentarily coming up for air.

Gram beamed with the handful of teeth she had left.

"Greenie stew," she said.

"Greenie stew…" Zelli pondered this. Greenies were what Pokie had called the dinosaurs that had nearly just eaten _her._ She caught herself from a moment of horror—Zelli had never eaten meat before, they grew only vegetables aboard her home ship—looked around at the skeptical Pokie and the smiling Gram, and buried her face in the soup again.

Meat, as it turned out, was just too good.

"Thank you," Zelli said, a moment later.

"Now there, see? She's a good girl. Look at how clean that plate is. Alien or not, you're our guest. Isn't she, Pokie."

"Hmmph."

Pokie folded his arms and stuck up his nose, avoiding from Zelli's gaze. She couldn't really blame him—the prophecy did say that the destroyer would come in a falling star from the darkness of the sky. And that _is_ what she had done, kind of. It was ironic that she found her way into this mess following another kind of shooting star.

"Hey, wait a minute," Zelli exclaimed. "Wait a minute! It's not me and I can prove it!"

Pokie looked at her out of the corner of his eye and raised an eyebrow. Gram continued to smile. She took her seat and stirred the cauldron again.

"There's another star!"

"Another star!?" Pokie exclaimed, excited, then afraid, then both.

"Yeah, we came here following another shooting star! But then we saw the planet and jumped ahead of it. It's probably still a ways behind us!"

Zelli caught herself. There was no telling if the super-asteroid was in fact heading for the Earth, or if it actually contained some kind of life-form. And if it _did_ , that was actually super bad news for everyone on this planet, including her. But that wasn't important now.

What was important was that this star might take some of the heat off of Zelli's back. If she could show the right people, they might even believe that she had come here to save _them_ from _it._ Wouldn't that be an ironic twist of fate? If the alien turned out to be the hero? Zelli chuckled to herself.

"What's funny, dear?" Gram asked.

"Oh, what?! Nothing!" Zelli blurted out. "I was just… You know, Daan can show someone the star! He's a robot, but he's a good robot! The only question is, who do we show?" Gram and Pokie looked at each other. Pokie was becoming increasingly nervous.

"The Chief Astronomer in the city," Gram mumbled.

"Will you help me find him? Pokie? Please?"

"Oh, no. No way. Not Pokie," Pokie stammered. "Pokie can't. If I get caught with an alien, they'll lock me up forever!"

"Pokie, you have to help me!" Zelli pleaded. "I can't do it without you! Come on, nothing bad will happen! And if I don't tell the Astronomer, the star might destroy this whole world! Think about it, Pokie, you could be a hero!"

"A hero?" Pokie said, like he liked the ring of it. "Pokie, a hero…?"

His smile faded, and he said, "Gram?" Gram was not smiling. She stared into the brown waters of her soup.

"It is dangerous. But it was dangerous when yer pa and ma went into the city to protest the farm tax. And it was brave of them to try to protect each other, when soldiers began firing into the crowd…"

Chunks of reptilian flesh turned over in the brown stew. A round, very orange slice of carrot floated up to the center.

"Nobody wants to be a hero, Pokie. That's why they're called heroes."

Pokie stood. He took off his dirty cap, and twisted it between his hands. Across the room, Gram stared into the cinders beneath her cauldron. Zelli wiped her eyes. She tried to look as sweet as she could, but her face just kept trembling in ugly ways. She wished she could be braver, but she needed him. If Pokie didn't help her, she was doomed.

"Aw, crap," Pokie groaned. "Double-crap."

~Vandakir~

"It's obvious, isn't it?" a councilor said. "If the prophecy is to be believed, then the scapegoat Nikin must be taken back to Kakaropolis. His voice could change the direction of the war!"

"What would that accomplish?" another called out. "The prophecy speaks of the falling star. This has nothing to do with the Nikin!"

Vandakir sighed. The Governmental Palace room was filled with the political leaders of Anathra, Wolf Clan Chiefs, Turtle School Masters, a lone Nikin exile, and one grumpy old Namekian, who for the most part snoozed with his chin against his chest. Vandarkir wondered what he dreamed about. What did the women look like on the ancient planet Namek?

"Obviously the scapegoat" Vandakir wasn't a fan of his new nickname "is used to confuse and delay the Nikin scheming! Giving us time to plan and unify so when the war comes, we can meet these Nikin wasps full force! No being caught off guard again!"

Vandakir wasn't alive the last time the Nikin went to war—something of which the older court nobles and his training masters and even his frigid mother were always reminding him. But he had gathered that there were two versions of events—one that the Nikin told, that they war began with a decisive victory, and one that everyone else told, that it began with an ambush. He couldn't help but notice a little bit of mud splattering in his direction

 _Death by a thousand sideways insults,_ Vandakir mused. A fitting end for a man like him.

"He should be kept in Anathra, out of the way, until we can see the moving pieces clearly! The International City will be death

"Maybe his role will be to prevent the war altogether," a Master of the Turtle School volunteered. "Maybe his revelation will shame the Nikin into silence. And give diplomacy a chance to work."

"Of course the Nikin are going to war," Leon scoffed. "It's all they know how to bloody do."

"Do not pretend to understand the Nikin," Vandakir snapped. The Knight of Anathra raised an eyebrow. Vandarkir walked to the center of the room. "I've sat on my ass letting you all talk about what to do with _me_ for too long. No one thought to ask me what _I_ want to do, but that's okay—you're all big-time masters and generals, so I gather. But at least let me inform you of something I do know, the Nikin mind!

When there is money needed, who is called on to pay back ancient reparations? When there is a need for warriors, whose barracks are scraped empty? When there is a rivalry on the Senate floor, who gangs up against who? You know who. And we know it is not because we are the weakest among you, not the runts. We are put down because we are the strongest.

How could your weakling tribes understand the Nikin? Only the Nikin can say that we are proud to be Saiyan! The blood is thick in our veins. Only the Nikin harbor the power of Saiyan rage in their hearts. You sit here in your pretty towers, worshipping this idol and that. Do you know who we worship? The God of War, the Prince of our Race. _The strongest Saiyan, and him alone."_

"Vegeta wasn't the strongest," Piccolo mumbled in his sleep. "Goku was."

"I'm… I'm sorry?" Vandakir puffed. He was sweating suddenly, his chest pumping under his traveler's robes. He was in a room full of heroes, again, shooting his mouth off. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"It was Goku."

"Goku…? Wait, no he wasn't"

"I was there, asshole," Piccolo rumbled, opening his crusted eyes. "I knew them both. Goku was stronger."

Vandakir wanted to protest. There was a well-known argument that held that Goku was more skillful, as he had been training with the Space Gods, but that Vegeta was born more powerful.

"I knew them both," Piccolo said again. "They were both strong… Goku, they were strong… Shit, now even I'm talking like that."

It had grown quite late. The slits between the curtains were lead gray, the room draped in shadows.

"These were men who destroy worlds without too much trouble. You just can't even understand there power. Damn, a few thousand years ago, I used to be able to destroy worlds, and _I_ can't even understand their power. But I'll say this… Vegeta was strong. And his anger came from his strength and his pride. He could get angry like no one else. He fought like a son of a bitch when he was angry.

"Goku didn't have that kind of rage. He was a pleasant guy, even when he was punching you in the face. He was full of love. And that's where is strength came from. Love. And love is always stronger than anger."

The room pondered. A millennia old debate had just been settled in a few grunts. But, if love was stronger than anger… Vandakir couldn't articulate his thoughts, but he felt them. He flexed his fingers.

"We're going to Kakaropolis," he announced.

"We are?"

"Yes," Vandakir affirmed, though he did not know why, what strange voice was calling him towards his destiny. "We're going to try to intervene, shut this down before another world war breaks out."

"So be it, then," Piccolo said, with the hint of a smile.

~Agghus~

Agghus reflected back at himself. Square chin, angled brows, frown lines. In some small ways, minus the chin, he resembled the War God—though he shared hardly any of the royal blood. The face spasmed and vanished; he splashed the water up on his face.

The War Council would not allow him to see his sons before he left. Of course not. So instead of saying goodbye, he washed his face for each of them:

First for his eldest, Irroni. The most like his wife, the sharpest of the three of them, always thinking about his next move. _Stay quick, my firstborn_ , _for your brothers. Watch out for them, keep them safe, one step ahead._ He washed his cheeks; heard the drops falling.

He cupped his hands again through the basin. Second, for his middle son, Joko, a balance of Agghus and his late wife, the fiercest of his children, the most promising warrior. _Honor me, Joko. Honor your father and mother. Honor your Saiyan pride._ He rubbed his wet palms against his eyes. _Slay many of your enemies. Make me proud._

The water settled, and but for the occasional slow drop, Agghus saw his face again, but this time it was not his face, it was Omga, his littlest, still just a boy. Omga. He was the strangest of the three, like neither his father nor his mother, and yet somehow not different either. Strong, but not soldier material. He was a sweet child. His wife had mentioned that once, before she died, Agghus had hated the sound of it—a sweet child. His sons were meant to be fighters. A strange child, peaceful, attentive to moods. A sweet boy. Yet now, as Agghus imagined the face of his youngest child in the washbasin, he no longer felt disgust. A sweet boy.

 _My sweet son_.

He washed his forehead and temples, ran his fingers down the skin until it was dry. He prayed once as he finished to his wife, and then two bows for the War God. Never had he felt like this before a mission. Questioning? But he could not fail again. He was sure of that. He could not fail his nation again.

"Are you ready?" one of his escorts asked.

Agghus nodded, and they joined the rest of the company to fly to Kakaropolis.

They dot the Earth from corner to corner. Some calm, some numb, some shivering; some amused by the thoughts and fancies of their own minds. They pass through tunnels of time heartbeat by beat; footsteps in the dust, cooked meat torn off a bone, laughter thrown into a conversation. They fly, they rest on the grass behind a tanner's shed, in earshot of a creek; they glow. They blink their tired eyes at the stars in the night. The earth turns in its black sheath, and beyond the faintest tug of its gravity but drawing as if by instinct closer, a star crosses the void.


	5. Chapter 5: Meetings & Farewells

**Chapter V**

 **Piccolo**

In the dreams of Piccolo, the sky is green and the earth is blue. He is back on Planet Namek, with its gentle whispering orb-trees and sweet green rivers. Namek, where he was not born but would have hoped to die. His people are there, too, the distant cousins he never knew, but for those fleeting days of holocaust: Nail, Dende, Tsuno, Moori, Guru and his many sons. But in his dreams they are going about their lives without worry or fear, playing, sitting in prayer, training in the Warrior arts of their castes; they smile at him.

A streak of light bisects the dome of the sky as the star falls, and for a moment it is unclear whether it is day or night. Piccolo watches, frozen, as the eyes of his people grow wide, again. The planet shakes. Blue turns to red, green turns to brown.

Then come the fires. They sweep away the leaves of the orb-trees and crumble the pod-villages to ash. Again, Piccolo watches as his people, his race, his species turn in horror, to where? There is nowhere to run. Who is the cause, the Nazi, Frieza? The Demon, Buu? A Saiyan gone mad? Piccolo glares at the distant figure in the middle of the tempest flame. He cannot quite make him out, but somehow, he thinks, the man is familiar.

Then the dream is washed clean, and there is only a forest.

Two dogs trot down the forested path, one red, one blue. Piccolo recognizes the Great Forest and then the blue dog sinks its fangs into the red dog's neck. The red dog whimpers. This time, Piccolo can move, and he snaps his nails off the blue dog's spine. The blue dog releases, holds his ground and growls. They fight. Piccolo wins; he always wins. He would have to be a real piece of shit to lose a fight with a dog.

Piccolo turns to find the red dog running off, leaving a trail of red blood, which he follows. When he catches him, the dog is sitting by a rock in a grassy clearing, and sitting on the rock, with his legs crossed, is Son-Goku.

"Hi, Piccolo," says Goku.

"Goku," the Namekian replies. His own voice sounds so old.

It has been so long since he has seen his friend in the flesh, so long since he has heard his happy voice, that—even though he knows it to be only a dream—Piccolo cannot help but tear up. He wipes his eyes.

"I have what you're looking for," Goku says cheerfully.

The Saiyan extends his arm with a piece of paper in it, but before Piccolo can make sense of the writing on it, his dream comes to an end.

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6: A Hole in the World

**The 50** **th** **Goku**

"Pella?"

The 50th Goku had meant to scream her name, but all that came out of his blast-burnt throat was a croak. It was a miracle he was even alive. He bodyguards had partially shielded the blast, but only his own great strength had saved him. He wondered who else had made it, if anyone. No, he scolded his own addled mind. She made it. She had to.

"Pella?" The 50th called the name of his wife again. This time it was barely a whisper. He waded chest-deep through the ash and cinders, lost in a surreal, flat world. The sky was as dark as a winter storm, and the world beyond the rubble-strewn crater was hidden behind a driving gray snow. But not cold snow.

The land was scorched. Those who had not died in the blast were now cooking in the rubble, and that included the Goku. He could feel his precious little remaining life dimming in the dark heat. He was running out of time. But he would not leave without her. Soon, he could no longer speak her name, only shuffle through the charred remains, and pray.

First a wrist. Then a hand with fingers, all five of them, mercifully. The Goku knew then he had found her. She was trapped under something, some granite edifice. Death tugged on the corner of the Goku's tattered shirt, reminding him that he had nothing left to give but his life. He paid it no mind and forced his hands under the block. With a roar he flipped the stone slab. It was not so heavy as the thing beneath it.

Carefully, the Goku slipped his arms under the body of his beautiful, dead wife, Pella.

She was gone. Her heart was not beating. But she was not cold. Nothing was cold in this godforsaken pit; the only noise were distant fires, chewing up the last of the assembly building's timbers.

 _No_ , the Goku thought. _She could not be gone. She was not gone._

The Goku put his hand over Pella's heart and prepared to pass the last of his ki back into her body, to restart the muscle in her chest. He found he could not. His palm was cold. As if a cruel joke, the more he concentrated on saving Pella's life, the colder his hand became. _You have nothing left to give_ , the Universe seemed to be saying, _not even your life_.

That's not possible, the Goku thought. Pella had to come back. They had waited their whole lives to have children. She had waited and waited for him. She had to come back to pass along her genes. She would have been such a wonderful mother.

The 50th Goku let out a scream that shook the ash sky and the embers beneath his feet. Pella was gone, gone, gone. His beautiful wife, his life, the mother of his children, gone. His eyes began to close. He held her body to his chest and relaxed onto the hissing ground. Death hurried to his side. Pella was gone.

 _And the Nikin were to blame_.

The thought was like a jolt of hateful electricity. The Goku's eyes snapped opened. His body was cold. There was nothing left in him. Yet he knew, somehow, he would escape this pit of fire and darkness, and live to fight another day. The Nikin wanted a war, wanted it badly. But the Goku was not going to fight the Nikin. He was not going to war with the Nikin.

He was going to _erase_ the Nikin.

 **Zelli**

Things had happened so fast. One minute she was zooming down the road, running for her life—the next she was wrapped up in the big arms of that stranger, Vandakir. This old green guy was groaning about something; he touched his head. The sky changed from blue to yellow. Then they heard it. Then they felt it.

The blast.

"That blast had the power of a thirty-kiloton fission bomb," Daan whispered in her ear.

Through the leaves, they watched the mushroom cloud rising.

By Zelli's count, that was nearly thirty minutes ago. She hadn't spoken much to anyone in that time; no one had spoken more than a few words. But she'd gathered that the blast had come from Kakaropolis, the city to which she and Pokie were supposed to be walking. Pokie, her hero.

Pokie's killers, the Sentries in the dark blue robes, were sitting just a few feet away. The memory of him turning bravely to face the Sentries, returned again to Zelli again. She closed her eyes and shivered. She hadn't even had time to thank him.

Zelli held back the tears, and, in the pause that followed, an icy coldness rushed into her chest. She welcomed it. She couldn't mourn her friend, not yet. She needed to survive, to figure out who the hell all these weirdos were and what she was going to do next. The scouting party would return sooner or later, and she would have to make decisions. She glanced back at the Sentries; their eyes were trained on the cloud of smoke in the distance.

"Ugh," the old green man groaned. He lowered himself, bit by bit, onto a stone across from Zelli.

"Oh!" Zelli said. "H-hello."

"Mm."

They stared at each other. Well, Zelli stared at the old man. She wasn't sure if he could see her. The skin on his face sagged like melted wax; his eyes could barely open.

"H-how are you?" Zelli asked.

"Been better," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry."

Zelli looked around. Was this a set up? This old green weirdo was being a total grouch. Yet he had sat down facing her. The man with the red hair, Vandakir, the one who had rescued Zelli in the road, was leaning against a tree trunk with his arms folded. He looked away quickly.

Daan buzzed Zelli, a little vibration in the small of her back, which meant that he had something to say. She ignored him. These people had saved her life, but it was still probably better that they didn't know she was giving a piggy-back ride to a robot. The old green man cleared his throat disgustingly and spat on the ground.

"You're an alien," he said.

"WHAT?!" Zelli exclaimed. _Keep it cool, Captain Gaia_ , _pull yourself together._ A few heads had turned to face her, but the Sentries hadn't moved yet. She was cool, she could pull this off.

"AhahaHAHA!" She tried to laugh it off and made the noise of a cackling psychopath. "What are you talking about? An _alien? ME?_ "

Daan buzzed her again, this time harder.

"Dial it back a few notches, hot shot. No one's on trial here."

"I'm just _so_ astounded that you would think—"

"Don't be stupid. You're wearing that stupid space backpack—"

"It's _a jump-pack_ ," Zelli retorted.

The lumpy pile of green skin across from her twitched. Did that old cretin just raise an eyebrow at her? It was one thing to accuse her of being an alien, the most hated creature on the planet. But throwing shade at her jump-pack? That crossed a line. Daan was still buzzing her. Zelli snuck an elbow into the side of her pack to shut him up.

"Relax," the old man said, raising a hand that looked like a dried cucumbega rind. "You're among friends. Probably the only people on the face of the planet you could call friends… I'm an alien, too."

" _You're_ an alien?" Zelli retorted. He was definitely playing her, now. "Daaaang. Well that whole prophecy thing about aliens bringing the end of the world and all must be real inconvenient for you."

"I was grandfathered in," the old green guy muttered.

The dude with the red hair had wandered over to them. He didn't say anything; he just stared at the two of them, snapping back and forth.

"Ooooh, that makes sense," Zelli continued. "Because you're like a thousand years old…" A few of the other weirdos—men and women wearing animal skins and uniforms with ancient lettering—were also starting to circle in on their conversation.

"Still, must be a major pain in the butt keeping such a low profile. What idiot made that prophecy, anyway?"

"I did," the old green man stated.

" _What?!_ " Zelli exclaimed. Now she was genuinely confused. This guy was claiming to be an alien and also the one who had screwed over aliens? That didn't make a lick of sense. "Well, thanks a lot, grandpa!"  
"Yeah, well, I'm also the one who made the prophecy that we should save that lug, over there." He pointed a craggy finger at Vandakir. "And he's the idiot who decided to jump in the way of those Sentries and save your life. So you're welcome. A lot."

Vandakir blushed and turned away. There were twenty rough looking dudes around them down, not a one of them moving or talking, just starting wide eyed while Zelli and the shriveled green husk worked it out. Daan was buzzing her like crazy.

"So first you tell me that you're an alien," Zelli ticked off each of her points on her fingers, for the whole group to see. "Then you tell me that you're the one who made the prophecy that all aliens are bad. But you also want me to believe that you're the reason I'm alive. What's next? You're gonna tell me you're Piccolo, or something?"

"Yes."

"HA! Ha, ha!"

Daan stuck his speaker into Zelli's ear and the group gasped.

" _Zelli_ ," Daan hissed. "I'm sorry, but— _that's Piccolo!_ I've scanned his DNA and it's Namekian! That's the real, live Piccolo!"

Zelli felt the blood draining out of her face. Now that Daan mentioned it, the drooping ends of the old green man's ears were awfully pointy. And he had these gross dangling things like old old antennae hanging off his forehead. And he was green.

"Holy shoot," Zelli gasped.

Piccolo gathered another ball of snot in the back of his throat and spat on the ground.

"Piccolo?"  
"That's _Mister_ Piccolo to you."

"Mister Piccolo! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Yeah, well. Like I said, relax. I prophesied that one day an alien would come to Earth and destroy humanity. Not be excessively obnoxious. You're no Majin Buu, don't worry."

A bird began to squawk in a nearby tree. The forest had been obscenely quiet ever since the blast-winds ripped through shortly after the mushroom cloud lifted. Zelli wanted to crawl into a hole and sleep until she turned nineteen. The entire crew of weirdos were practically falling over to get closer to the conversation.

"How's space?" Piccolo asked.

"Pretty lame," Zelli muttered. "We're running out of food and oxygen. And we've killed most of each other over the past few centuries. Over food and oxygen. How's Earth?"

"Well, our capitol city just got blown to smithereens. And we're probably going to war again. But the alien conqueror I predicted would destroy us all can barely tie her own shoes, so that seems a small victory."

This time, Zelli didn't fuss. She thought about Pokie. He'd been majorly freaked out when she showed him her hi-tops. Now where was he? Woven into the fabric of the universe? She tried to repress another fit of sobbing, but she didn't have the strength.

Piccolo held up a hand.

"Leon's back."


End file.
